


You Should Have Someone

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Fluff, M/M, Not beta'd we die like men, sharing a bed (a little bit of that anyway), there's room at the inn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22270633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Jaskier thinks Geralt needs someone to tend to him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 815





	You Should Have Someone

“You should have someone to do this for you,” Jaskier said conversationally as he carefully stitched up Geralt’s latest “scratch,” a gash given to him by the sharp claws of a blood-black harpy.

The harpy came off worse, its strangely beautiful head (severed of its body) sitting on the cracked wooden table, its eyes forever open in death. 

“Gotten used to doing it myself.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, tongue sticking out very slightly as he concentrated on a jagged part. “Just because you  _ can _ do something alone, doesn’t mean you  _ have _ to. But that isn’t what they teach you in Witcher School, is it?”

Geralt huffed. “I would hardly call it a school.”

Jaskier studied him, the ox of a man sitting docilely in the oak chair, stone at his feet and leather on his shoulders. His great black cloak, furred with mink, lay on the bed nearby. This job hadn’t paid as well as some others, so they’d be sharing tonight. Jaskier didn’t mind. Geralt was warm and didn’t snore. And he could be sure that he wouldn’t be killed or robbed in his sleep with a Witcher nearby.

If the tavernfolk had looked at Geralt strangely when he’d paid for only one room, well then, let them look. Jaskier paid them no mind Let them think what they liked, as long as they paid him for his ballads and gave Geralt ale and the food was hot, he found that he didn’t care nearly as much as he used to.

He cared for Geralt though. What had his life been like before Jaskier? Lonely? Probably. But his wide, stoic form gave itself to a lonely life, haunting corners of taverns and wielding a sword in the darkness.

“And do they teach you to wear all black at Witcher school, too?” Jaskier tied off the end of the thread and sat back to examine his work. Not bad, all told.

“Blood shows up less on black,” Geralt muttered.

“And you haven’t thought about trying other colours?”

Geralt arched a brow. “What for?”

“You know. To feel pretty.” Jaskier gestured to his own outfit - a wine red doublet over a faded yellow shirt with puffed sleeves.

Geralt grunted. “Feeling pretty doesn’t kill monsters. No monster killing, no coin.”

“Monsters and coin.” Jaskier took a swig of the second-best whiskey the inn had offered (no sense on buying the best, they might need to save some coin for tomorrow night’s sleeping arrangements) - and then poured a generous dollop onto Geralt’s wound, just to be sure. The Witcher winced but otherwise gave no indication that he felt any pain. “Is that all that interests you?”

Something flickered over Geralt’s starkly handsome features. “Not many opportunities for much else, as a Witcher.”

“That’s sad.”

“That’s life, bard,” Geralt groused. Then, gentler, “Thank you. For this.” He jerked his arm, the one Jaskier had painstakingly sewn up and covered in second-best whiskey. “We’d better get some rest. There’s a second harpy to deal with,tomorrow.”

Jaskier was already turning pages in his notebook, the one almost falling apart with age and use, scribbling with his equally abused quill. “Gods, why does nothing rhyme with harpy? Sharply… no, not quite. Party… hmmm, well, it wasn’t  _ fun… _ ”

Geralt undressed silently and Jaskier managed to keep his eyes averted. Geralt’s body was a familiar sight now, and over the months Jaskier had learned most of the scars littering his tower-like form, tiny weaknesses made visible, especially when the firelight (if they were lucky enough to have a hearth) flickered over the Witcher’s pale skin just so.

Down to a frayed black undershirt and his almost threadbare trousers, Geralt crossed to the bed, taking a huge fur with him. Jaskier averted his eyes as the larger man slid under the heavy covers. He and Geralt had seen each other bathing, he’d stitched Geralt’s wounds for the first time today, but still, looking at the Witcher getting into bed seemed too intimate to look at for long, an everyday activity that one did out of habit. When people did things out of habit, they showed more of themselves than they knew.

Jaskier drank more of the second-best whiskey as the moon rose through the poorly-slatted window of their room. It hung heavy and full against the blanket of starless sky, the village beyond quiet as a grave. In bed, Geralt turned over, and Jaskier set his book down, resigned, and yawned hugely.

He stripped down to his undershirt - it would need laundering in a few days, he hoped their coin could stretch to that - blew the guttering candle on the floor out, and settled in beside his friend. In the dark, by moonlight, he let his eyes trace the bridge of Geralt’s nose, the cleft in his chin, the way his hair draped over the pillow. Let himself inhale the scent of the other man, all polished, aged leather and the lemon oil he cleaned his sword with.

“What.” The word was soft in Geralt’s gruff baritone.

Panic scrambled up Jaskier’s spine. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Geralt rumbled, not opening his eyes. “Your thoughts talk loudly for you. You are incapable of doing anything quietly, bard, not even thinking.”

Jaskier cast around for a lie. Any lie. Anything to not have to say  _ I was looking at you, and enjoying what I saw, and enjoying this closeness, and pretending- _

“I suppose I’m cold,” he said eventually, and waited, breathlessly, to see if Geralt would call him out on the obvious lie, the baldness of it in this otherwise silent room. Even the flames had died down to mere embers, their tips glowing soundless red. His own heartbeat sounded intolerably loud to his ears.

“Come here, then,” Geralt grumbled, and before he knew it Jaskier was pulled tightly against the other man. It was an embrace of comfort and warmth, and nothing more, but the Witcher was solid and warm and he smelled of _safety_ , and it was enough.

Jaskier slept soundly, and dreamt of nothing.

  
  



End file.
